Dante looked down at the little warrior princess in his arms, his little storm, and felt something shift inside him, fall, click into place, locked tight. With the names of both women who had protected their children in their own ways – his mother and Amara’s – Tempest was a wrinkly, scrawny little thing, with a head full of dark hair and eyes squinted closed, looking nothing like the babies he saw in the media. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
With her rump on his palm and her entire body – waddled in a blanket – fitting in the crook of his arm, Dante felt his eyes begin to burn.
“Dante-” the voice croaked from the hospital bed, bringing his attention to the woman he didn’t even know what he felt for anymore. Love was too tame a word, adoration too juvenile. Broken and bleeding at fifteen, she had made his world tremble; exhausted and spent now, she owned it.
He went to sit beside her, putting his precious bundle over her chest, watching as the woman his entire life belonged to gave a tearful smile, sobbing as she brought up a scarred hand to hold her, her ring glinting in the muted light.
“She made it,” Amara rasped out, her liquid eyes taking her in, before coming to his, shimmering with such endless emotion he felt himself falling into them again. Her eyes, those unique, beautiful, expressive eyes, had always been the hook into his chest.
“She’s a fighter,” Dante said, his voice sounding rough to his ears. “Like you.”
Amara’s lips trembled. “She ours, Dante. Ours. After all this time.”
Dante pressed a kiss to her wet lips. “My warrior queen. I’m so proud of you.”
Amara nuzzled her nose against his. “Did you count her toes?”
“Every one of them.”
The princess made a mou with her lips, a mewl coming from her little body.
“We will keep her safe, won’t we?” she asked him quietly, still looking down at their miracle. Dante rubbed the baby’s soft skin with a finger, his heart clenching as she gripped it with her tiny hands, the trust in the action the same unconscious trust fifteen-year-old Amara had shown him. It made everything inside him vow to shield them.
“Yes, we will,” he vowed.
“And if she ever cracks?” Amara locked her gaze with his.
“Then we fill her up with gold.”
She smiled, and Dante pressed his forehead to hers.
“Oh my god, she’s precious,” Morana cooed at little Tempest as Amara sat up on the hospital bed with her in her arms while Dante sat on a chair by the side.
They had just told Amara the story. Morana had been the one to find her in the room, having heard gunshots, and she had been the one to scream for help. Tristan had been the one to rush in, pick Amara up and carry her to the car while giving out instructions to get Nerea’s body away. Morana had sat in the back with her while Tristan had driven like a madman to the hospital, calling Dante on the way. She had been in labor for five hours with Dante by her side before Tempest came out, screaming like a banshee at being inconvenienced out of her mother’s snug womb.
The baby blinked around, her eyes a little more open.
“She has your eyes,” Tristan noted, standing behind Morana. Yes, and Dante loved that. Just like Amara had inherited her eyes from her mother, Tempest had inherited them from her.
Amara looked around the room, her face falling a bit and he realized she missed Vin. Dante felt bad about that. He should have been there with them in this important moment, but he was deep underground with Xavier, having been taken into the fold on MrX’s recommendation. He contacted Dante once a week with updates and Dante was expecting his call today. He looked down at his watch, to see it was early yet.
His eyes went to Tristan’s hand as he slowly put a finger over the baby’s cheek, and the tattoo on his ring finger caught Dante’s eye. It was too good an opportunity to pass.
“That tattoo,” Dante said, grinning. “You’re so romantic, Tristan.”
Tristan gave him a middle finger that Morana immediately slapped. “There are children here. No weird gestures.”
“Tell him not to piss me off,” Tristan said, giving Dante a look.
“No cursing either,” Morana pointed out.
Amara’s soft laughter rang from the bed. “You’ll be her godparents,” she said softly to the two people in the room, her mother having left just a few minutes ago after seeing her granddaughter.
“Are you sure?” Morana asked for the hundredth time.
Amara nodded, rocking Tempest in her arms. “There aren’t two people I trust more with her life besides Dante. If anything were to happen to us, I’d die knowing she was safe and loved by someone who would lay their lives for her.”
Morana went teary-eyed. Tristan put a hand on Amara’s shoulder in silent acceptance. And Dante smiled.
“Who’s on Amara now that Vin’s gone?” Tristan asked quietly, standing by his side as they waited for Amara to walk out into the lawn.
Trust him to ask the most non-romantic question during one of the most romantic moments of his life. Dante almost chuckled but stopped himself.
“Sav,” Dante replied, looking around at the garden that had been transformed into something out of a crazy fairytale. They hadn’t delayed the wedding, but he’d brought Amara home and not allowed her to lift a finger while she recovered. Call him overprotective, but that’s where he was at.
Dante stood in a tux, looking around at the guests who had come in for the wedding, the who’s who of the Outfit, the underworld, his father’s acquaintances, and his.
“I think Xander’s like Damien,” Tristan said out of the blue from his side, his brows slightly furrowed. “Not exactly the same, but similar. You have any tips for me?”
Dante turned to follow his gaze to the young eight-year-old boy who sat in the front, looking down at a tablet. Combined with what Morana had told him about his high intelligence, Dante could see why they’d think that.
“Don’t think,” he told Tristan. “Know. Get a diagnosis so you can do what’s the best for him. Assuming you’re keeping him, of course,” he added with a sly grin.
Tristan gave him a look, before looking forward again. “He reminds me of myself when I was that age. I don’t want him to be alone. Morana and I, he’s happy with us.”
Dante smiled. “Then don’t. Are you happy?”
“I think so.”
The music beginning stopped their conversation. Dante turned to see Zia walking down the aisle arm in arm with his woman is a stunning dress of white gold that shimmered in the sunlight, the lacy full sleeves covering her arms, the high neck covering her scar, her hair in some kind of an up-do, his little warrior princess nestled in her arms.
Dante felt something move inside his chest, something so soft and fierce and alive, something that only resonated with and for this woman. His magnum opus. His warrior queen. The mother of his child.
She came to a stop beside him, a wide smile on her red lips. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he murmured, his eyes taking her in, savoring this moment he’d never thought he’d have with her over the years of wait, his eyes flickering down to the curious little girl wiggling and looking around in awe.
He bent down and planted a kiss on her head, before pressing a hard kiss to his woman. “You’re the beat to my heart, Amara. Now, she’s a beat too.”
She wiped the lipstick from his mouth. “And mine.”
The ceremony began.
And though their world kept getting darker every day, empires he hadn’t known about coming to light, the one he was building nascent and dangerous and terrifying; though there were mysteries unsolved and questions unanswered and futures unknown; though there were possibilities of danger lurking in every corner, Dante looked around at his chessboard, and with his queen by his side, he felt ready to play them all.
